


Five + One Times Crowley's Hips Saved Aziraphale's Day

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale as a Medic, Belly Dancing, Crowley's Hips, Crowley's Swagger, Dirty Thoughts of an Angel, Fluff, Fox Hunts, History, M/M, Plague, Sex, Show Dancing, horse riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-11-07 16:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale appreciates his favorite fiend's form. A lot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Tadfield Avertiser kink meme.
> 
> Content warning: Here be anachronisms.

**1) They’re an all-round remedy.**

Aziraphale tried to push open the door to the inn and only realized it was heavier than it looked when he almost bumped into it. In his defense, it had been a tiring day. The storms in August had devastated the local farmers' fields and orchards, leading to a much poorer harvest than anticipated. In addition to the oncoming famine – they were so far off any greater trade routes, no merchant was going to risk his ships by coming up the coast in autumn – a strange sickness had seized the town mayor's daughter.

Well, strange in the villagers' eyes. Aziraphale had seen the symptoms before: her paleness, her thin, shaking hands, the blood she coughed up in the morning. It was a creeping plague, its onset slow and its spread pattern... well. 

Aziraphale clutched his medic's bag tighter, knuckles turning white around the handle. Unease roiled in his stomach. There had to be someone he could save. Anyone at all. A single person and his efforts wouldn't have been in vain.

A first twinge of pain poked his temple. Great. Just what he needed right now.

He finally managed to open the heavy door wide enough to squeeze through. A smoky, dark dining room greeted him – or what counted for one at the arse-end of nowhere. Tiny flames cracked in the fireplace, heating the combined smells of boiling potatoes and urine in a way that made the angel's head throb in protest.

He had been planning to eat. Food always made him feel better. Right now, though, he just wanted to say a prayer and rest his head, and probably sleep away the next week or so. He'd never been one for escaping reality like that, preferring a good book instead, but with everything that was going on, he was beginning to see the appeal.

Aziraphale blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dimness. The tavern seemed curiously deserted. Had they all died already?

Oh, no. Two men sat in chairs by the window. One of them stood to greet Aziraphale, while the other kept staring out into the dingy fields.

"Welcome, Medic," said the man who was probably the proprietor of the inn. "I've not been expecting you."

Aziraphale returned the greeting, but found himself unable to take his eyes off the man who hadn't moved. He was clad in a long, black cloak, hood drawn over his face, but his hands on his mug were powder white. Was he sick?

"Good sir?"

Aziraphale startled. "Umm, excuse me, what did you say?"

"I said..."

The man by the window rose and, without turning, headed for the stairs at the back of the room. Or, well, tumbled: for the first steps he seemed a drunkard, flinging his limbs out in every direction but always managing to catch himself before he fell. Then it became obvious that he wasn't: he was just tilting his hips with every step, as if he carried the weight of his torso in his pelvis and every movement had to come out of those very joints.

Aziraphale found his gaze drawn to the swaying hips. It was... a spectacle, to be sure. His tired mind, overworked and weary of all the death and disease and hunger, jumped at the opportunity to provide a different line of thoughts. One that he could never admit to in polite company – or any company, really – but blew the oncoming headache right from his mind and filled his body with a welcome, tinging wash of warmth.

With a coy tilt of his hips, the stranger vanished around the bend of the stairs, and Aziraphale drew a sharp breath. He'd seen that swagger before!

"Sir! I just told you we don't have any free rooms!" The inn-keeper's voice bellowed, causing Aziraphale to jump for the second time.

"I- errm. Sorry, good man," he stammered, still reeling from his realization but feeling much more energized than he had in weeks. He straightened, patting the man's shoulder. "I am not here for a room. In fact, I am here to visit my friend. If you'll excuse me!"

Aziraphale ran for the stairs, medic bag clutched tight to his chest. "Crowley! Crowley, wait!"

He almost ran into the dark-clad figure leaning against the banister at the very top. From under the hood of his cloak, yellow demon eyes sparkled at Aziraphale. "I had a hunch it was you. Statistically speaking, we should have run into each other half a year ago. You look like shit, are you feeling alright?"

Aziraphale smiled. "My dear, my day just got much better."

\- - -

**2) They were _made_ to grace a saddle.**

Aziraphale hated horses. Actually, no, he didn't, because he was an angel and couldn't help but feel a deep, all-encompassing love for every single living being. But he hated interacting with them, especially when it involved his arse and a hard, chunky leather saddle, and the beasts knew it.

Sadly, Aziraphale was moving in certain circles these days and if he wanted to stay in their good graces – and their well-stocked libraries – he had no choice but to attend the fox hunts he was regularly invited to. And ride. Because the days where he could just hand the reins to a walking page were, unfortunately, over.

The only upside this time was that Crowley, freshly returned from a sojourn in Japan that seemed to have involved a lot of tea ceremonies and a few ritual suicides, had also been called upon. And lo and behold: for the first time in multiple thousand-odd years, they found themselves on the same side.

Crowley didn't actually like horses any better than Aziraphale, but he cut a striking figure atop his mount. The demon's long-legged mare was the pinnacle of good breeding, and it showed in her temperament: where Aziraphale's chunky brown gelding had been blessed with the complacence of a mule and was content to drag his feet, she shot to the front of the pack, danced sideways on her dainty toes for no reason whatsoever and threw her head up, nostrils flaring, at every noise from the woods. Through all of it, Crowley's rear never once lost contact with the saddle. He seemed completely oblivious to her antics, even when she shied from a squirrel and attempted to buck him off. Twice.

If he hadn't been complaining about it all through the fourteenth and fifteenth century, Aziraphale would be almost convinced that Crowley was having _fun_. Except he wasn't, and that made Aziraphale's own plight marginally more bearable.

It got even better when he finally noticed that, thanks to their relative positions within the posse, he had a perfect view of said unmovable rear. Of his thighs, too, clenched tightly around the mare's flanks. With every one of her long, floating steps, Crowley's hips rolled, pressing his arse into the leather. His hands, which Aziraphale could only see occasionally, were tight in his lap, and it almost looked like he was grinding against them. Grinding, as if he were –

"Mr. Fell, you look a little flushed."

More heat rose into Aziraphale's cheeks. He coughed into his hand. "D-do I?"

The young man beside him – some noble or other, he probably had a pedigree as long as the one of Crowley's horse – shot him an excited smile. It was his first time out. "Yeah, you do."

"Oh." Aziraphale winced. "It's... the books, you see."

The young man blinked. "What?"

"I'm more of a bookworm, myself," Aziraphale elaborated. "I prefer to spend my days in the library."

"Ah. Sounds boring."

Aziraphale's already dying interest for the young man flat-lined instantly. He pulled a face. "I know it is not how you young people divert yourselves these days, but let me tell you frankly that it wouldn't hurt any of you to pick up a book once or twice in a –"

"Fox!"

Everyone's heads snapped up. Even Aziraphale's gelding seemed surprised.

Atop the hill they were coming up on, a figure in red whose outfit stood in fierce competition with his chestnut's coat, waved a yellow flag at them.

The first riders, among them Crowley, spurred their horses into a gallop and suddenly, all thoughts about books deserted Aziraphale. He couldn't help but stare, wide-eyed, as the demon took the lead. Over the next few seconds, he gained even more traction, heading for the hedge that separated them from the fox at full speed. Two jumps from the obstacle, he rose out of the saddle, rear rising high as he bent over the neck of his mare. She drew her legs under her, ears pointing forward, and–

People talked about it, afterwards, how she had been flying. How her elegant, black body had turned weightless over the hedge, and night-black wings seemed to fan out over both her and her rider, carrying them trough the air.

Aziraphale, for the life of him, couldn't remember any of it. Seared into his memory forever was only the perfect seat of Crowley's breeches.

\- - -

**3) Music wakes their latent magic potential.**

It was a setup. It had to be. There was no other way, Aziraphale thought faintly, sinking deeper into his private armchair in his private viewing box far above the rest of the theater's crowds. He should have very well known better.

Usually it was Crowley who accompanied him on these outings, spending his time breaking other guests' spyglasses or persuading the stage floor to trip up the performers or – sometimes – genuinely enjoying the show. This time, though, the demon had cited a previous engagement and politely excused himself, which should really have been Aziraphale's first warning.

Sad but understanding – after all, Hell had the exact same habit of dropping in unannounced as Heaven had – and probably a gullible idiot to boot, Aziraphale had nonetheless donned his Sunday best – meaning his usual outfit, because he wouldn't dare leave the house in anything but his Sunday best – and headed to the theater on his own. It wasn't like he'd never seen a performance without the demon before, after all.

By the second act, he'd been too engrossed in the story to care much, anyway – until the belly-dancers came on.

The moment they took their positions on stage, fans fluttering and the coins on their wrists jingling, Aziraphale had nearly fallen out of his chair.

Because Crowley was on stage. Among the dancing ladies, right in their middle.

His red hair had grown suspiciously long – a wig, maybe? – in the three hours since Aziraphale had last seen him, waving around his head like flowing silk. His lips were painted crimson, the shadow on his eyelids a blue-ish purple – just like the beads in his hair. And he was _shirtless_.

The music picked up – floating oriental tunes, clearly composed by someone who had never been to the Orient – and the dancers raised their arms. A boy sitting on the edge of the stage clapped his drum. The dancers lifted one foot to their toes.

Aziraphale sat up straight.

And then, all of a sudden, they were moving: the silk, the coins and, most of all, their _hips_. They tilted from side to side, from front to back, their movement translating along the spine to shake the whole body. They undulated like snakes, and Crowley, having the unfair advantage on that front, was the most mesmerizing.

He'd closed his eyes but his lips were slightly parted, and his skin was glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Not a single one of his steps faltered as he moved completely in tune with the music.

It was indecent. Positively _scandalous_. Aziraphale couldn't tear his eyes away. His throat felt dry. Heat flared in his belly, pooling lower, and organs he didn't usually concern himself with gave interested twitches. His trousers felt suddenly much too tight.

He'd known Crowley could _move_, of course. He'd known Crowley could _seduce_. Both came with the territory. But apparently he wasn't just talented: he was an artisan. Someone who'd captured the entire audience's attention within seconds.

The demon was the center of the choreography. The leading lady, so to speak, and when Prince Charming appeared he headed straight for the demon without hesitating once.

Aziraphale had no idea how he'd done it, or why no one else seemed to mind. There was only one protester in the audience, when Crowley wrapped his leg around Prince Charming's waist in a way that Aziraphale had day-dreamed about for _years_. With a flick of his wrist, the angel waved the man quiet.

The demon's eyes snapped open at the wisp of power and he looked up, silk flowing around his arms. His hungry gaze found Aziraphale's right away and the angel knew, with sudden, perfect clarity, that he'd been found out.

Ice cold shock pounded through his veins.

Of course Crowley knew. It had probably taken him no time at all to clue into the fact that Aziraphale had started to fancy him. It was _instinct_. Demons traded in instinct. Was this a seduction?

Crowley's eyes were still locked onto his. He looked a little bit worried. His hands curled over Prince Charming's shoulders as the man whirled the demon into one last spin.

Aziraphale wiped the sweat from his brow, willing his pounding heart to cool. No, he trusted Crowley. The purpose of this display wasn't to humiliate him. But that could only mean... the angel fought hard against the flare of heat inside him. Suddenly, he couldn't wait for the whole performance to be over.

They had a lot to talk about.


	2. Chapter 2

**4) His riding-skills transfer nicely.**

It wasn’t the night after the performance they came together for the first time, even though Crowley tried his damnest to make it so. His dance had been tempting enough, Aziraphale would admit it freely, but something inside him _refused_ to be manipulated this way.

He wanted Crowley. Crowley wanted him and the moment they had to act on these desires – or go mad – was fast approaching, but he _couldn’t_ be another notch on Crowley’s imaginary bedpost.

So in the end he left before Crowley could catch him and reminded himself to be understanding and patient when the demon didn’t talk to him for three weeks after it.

They finally made it to a bed about half a year later, with a far less pompous setup. They’d been drinking in the bookshop, both pleasantly loose thanks to the wine, and – seeing as he’d been the one to halt things last time – Aziraphale simply… offered.

Crowley just stared at him, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then he’d barked a sharp laugh, tinged with understanding, and allowed the angel to lead him up to the bedroom.

Now that they were in it, though, Aziraphale couldn’t, for the life of him, remember why he’d been opposed to this for so long. Not only did he finally have Crowley, naked and warm and wriggling in his arms, every bit the sensualist Aziraphale had imagined him to be, but he felt like he’d found a piece of himself, too. And they weren’t even doing anything yet.

Crowley loved going slow. He loved to be touched and to touch in return, exploring the angel’s body with languid ease, tonguing his nipples until they pebbled and dipping his fingers, playfully, into his navel.

Aziraphale squirmed. “My dear.”

“Almost ready,” the demon hissed, the heat of the moment allowing his nature to surface.

The angel frowned. “Read with what?”

Crowley blinked down at him slowly, almost sleepily, and his lips curled. He stole another quick kiss. “Oh, angel, you’re so innocent.”

Aziraphale really wasn’t, and he was about to tell him so when the demon suddenly sat up and reached behind himself, gripping the angel’s cock. His slender hands were slick with something warm and slippery, and he suddenly understood.

His hands found Crowley’s hips naturally and he thought of anchors; of heavy, metal chains and weights keeping him in place. In the moment.

Looking into Crowley’s eyes as he sunk onto him was the biggest rush of Aziraphale’s entire life. Nothing could compare to it – not even soaring through the emptiness of the endless expanse before it became the sky, with the wind so prickly cold the leading edge of his wings ached when he slowed.

He was so hot inside. Blazing, like Hellfire, the few times Aziraphale had ever come in contact with it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been inside another this deep.

Crowley tilted his head back, curving his body to follow, and gave a slow roll of his hips. Sweat glistened on his skin, his chest and temples. The roots of his hair were wet with it. His channel squeezed around Aziraphale before releasing him, and then he did it all again.

With a start, Aziraphale recognized the movement, that undulation, only slightly altered. His hips jerked, chasing the heat and pressure.

Crowley placed a hand on the angel’s throat. “No,” he whispered, leaning in to soothe the words with a bite, and the bite, then, with a kiss. “Slow.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale moaned, unable to form a more coherent thought. He clutched at the demon’s hips, not to guide but to feel their movement, and settled in for the long haul.

Crowley was a skilled rider in all senses of the word.

\- - -

**5) He hits all the right spots.**

Sex with Crowley was generally a long, drawn-out affair.

It wasn't that he couldn't do it quick and dirty – they did that plenty, too; to Aziraphale's ongoing embarassment mostly in public places with dreadfully many potential witnesses. It also wasn't that Aziraphale ever said ‘no’ to a tryst – Crowley just needed to wriggle his hips _like that_ and all of the angel's higher reasoning fled to someplace far away to lollygag on a beach or something.

But deep down, something in Crowley seemed to yearn for that closeness of their bodies pressed together in the dimness of Aziraphale's bedroom. Seemed to need him nearer than every time before, each time.

They were once again on the bed. Lust writhed under Aziraphale's skin like a living thing. He threw his head back, rubbing his sweaty hair into the pillow.

Crowley's lips mouthed his Adam's apple and he shifted, every so slightly, which caused his cock to touch something blissful inside Aziraphale.

The angel moaned, clawing at the sheets, thighs squeezing harshly around his partner's waist. "Crowley, _oh, please_."

"Shh," the demon whispered, just as he had the other times Aziraphale had been getting too wound up.

But the angel couldn't help it. They had been at it for hours and he'd been wound tight long before that.

Walking out the Ritz behind Crowley reminded him of that day in the tavern every single time and just like back then it sparked a desire so deep he wouldn't be able to shake it until it had been satisfied.

Pleasure flared through him with every single one of Crowley's carefully measured thrusts. His hips moved just in the way they had on his horse, or on stage, or when he was on top of Aziraphale, and inside the angel's tight channel, the demon's cock pressed against his prostate.

Aziraphale moved his hands from the mattress to Crowley's hair. Maybe tugging here would help. "_Crowley._"

The demon grinned, fangs glinting white. "Relax, angel. You gotta take time with the finer things in life."

His tongue caressed the white column of Aziraphale's throat. The angel whined. His dick throbbed, pulsing against the blasted ring Crowley had slipped around him.

There was no other way - he had to resort to begging, or he'd go mad. "Oh, please. _Please._"

"Hmm, I do love it when you beg."

He captured Aziraphale's mouth with his lips, slipping his wicked tongue inside.

The angel groaned, taking all he was given. He was so hot, he must have been melting. Any moment now it would become too much, one perfect thrust and he'd –

Crowley gently disentangled Aziraphale hands from his hair, entwining their fingers. He pulled Aziraphale's arms over his head until their knuckles brushed the headboard, the wood cool under his skin. It also brought their chests flush together, all the while without once breaking their kiss.

"Oh, Aziraphale," Crowley whispered into warm, wet space between their mouths. "Always so trusting–"

Aziraphale's eyes flew open, but it was already too late. The cuffs snapped shut.

Above him, Crowley's lips curled. "I can do this all day."

\- - -

**+1) Aziraphale can hold onto them.**

Anathema and her young gentleman – Newton? – left Tadfield airbase in the back of Mr. Young’s car. He’d offered to take Crowley and Aziraphale back to the village, too, but they’d refused. Well, Crowley had– The angel had found himself rather at a loss for words after seeing _him_ in the flesh after so many years.

He’d... changed. His body, at least. The fire in his eyes was the same, and now it surrounded him, and his demons, every waking moment.

It burned Aziraphale just to look at _him_ in his fresh memories, the brother they had all seen fall, and it felt like the fire was licking at the edges of his wings, beckoning. The way down was always the easy one.

“That would be the kids,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale startled. “What?”

“The kids just left on their bikes,” Crowley explained, sauntering over to where Aziraphale was standing while he waved the airbase’s gate shut. Then his gaze fell upon the angel and he froze. “Aziraphale, are you alright?”

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes were shining in the light of the setting sun. A scent of brimstone was clinging to his clothes, ever so faint.

Crowley lifted a hand, reaching for him but stopping halfway. He looked alarmed. “Angel?”

And Aziraphale just… _couldn’t_ take it any more. He stumbled, not knowing whether he would run or fall – but Crowley was there, catching him, as Aziraphale threw his arms around him, pulling him close, close, _close_. His breath hitched, a sob catching in his throat. “Crowley, oh, Crowley.”

“Shh, angel, I’ve got you,” the demon mumbled, awkwardly patting his back.

Aziraphale pressed closer still, arms around Crowley’s waist, hands clutching at his hips. _Anchor_, he thought, feeling as if he’d float away if he let go. He buried his face against Crowley’s neck, breathing him in. Up close, it was just him again – wet soil and cologne and the last traces of the Bentley’s leather.

“I thought it was all over,” Aziraphale whispered, not trusting his voice to say it any louder.

Crowley’s arms tightened. “It’s not.” He curled tighter around Aziraphale. “It’s _not_, angel.”

Aziraphale pushed his fingers against Crowley’s bony hips and held on for dear life. The waves were pulling at him. Drowning him. Right now, the demon’s body was the only solid thing in the universe. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Crowley drew back a little, curling a knuckle under Aziraphale’s chin to guide him in for a kiss, and that was a whole different sort of drowning.

The angel took it gladly, sinking into the feeling. Just fifteen minutes ago, the world had been falling apart around him. His heart was still thumping in his chest, beating a mile a minute. It wasn’t okay – but that didn’t matter so much, right now.

With Crowley to hold onto, they’d make it okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Beppi's [beautiful art of bellydancing Crowley](https://bonnabie.tumblr.com/post/188514759430/)!


End file.
